


pox

by largoindminor



Series: wincest love week 2015 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sam takes care of his sick brother</p>
            </blockquote>





	pox

**Author's Note:**

> wincest love week day 2

By the time Dean Winchester turns thirty-seven, he’s been shot a half dozen times at least. He’s been in four _serious_ car accidents. He’s been stabbed, choked, beat about the head will all manner of objects uncountable times. He’s _died._ More than once _._ All of those things, and many more, he bore with little more than an occasional flinch and a few silent tears before shaking it off and going on with life.

So it comes as a complete surprise when thirty-seven year old Dean Winchester, veritable _super-hero_ Dean Winchester, is completely incapacitated by the double stranded DNA virus HHV-3, or as he puts it, _god damn mother fucking chicken pox_.

The case is a simple salt and burn outside of Philadelphia, upper middle class neighborhood harboring a decades old dirty secret about an accidental death at a local elementary school. There’s a suspicious number of kids absent the day they arrive, which turns out to be completely unrelated to the vengeful spirit, a fact they realize while interviewing the school nurse amidst five itchy, spotted, tweens.

“Dean, uh, you shouldn’t touch that.” Sam warns when Dean rifles through the nurse’s files.

“S'The big deal? Didn’t we get vaccinated against this back in the 90s?” Dean brushes off Sam’s concern and starts examining the contents of her trash.

“Uh, no. I did. You. Skipped. Told dad you ‘weren’t showing up for no quack to give you a shot in the ass just to keep you from getting some dumb rash’, or something similar.” Sam puts airquotes around the phrase.

“Huh. That so.” Dean’s not really paying attention to Sam, as often happens when Sam’s going on about something prissy like _viruses_ or _highly communicable_ or  _for christ sake at least wear gloves._

Which is why Sam feels a little smug when Dean rolls over a few mornings later _covered_ in red weepy blisters. Why he _wants_ to say it, at least once, _I told you so,_ and honestly he probably will. But not until Dean’s better, because right now, with pox in his eyes and ears and even a few painful ones on his tongue, sitting in his 5th tepid oatmeal bath of the day, Dean is more miserable that Sam has ever seen him.

“Thammy,” Dean calls from the tub, “Tham c'mere. Can you thscratch my back. Pleathe?”

Sam doesn’t say _I told you so._ Doesn’t tell him that _no, I can’t scratch your back because you’re not supposed to scratch._ He just sits on the edge of the tub, pants rolled up to his knees so he can plop his feet into the water behind Dean, and applies a paste of Indian lilac and honey (he tells Dean he found the recipe in one of the great dusty books in the bunker’s library, but actually he got it off the message board on circleofmoms.com) all over Dean’s back.

“Mmmm, feelths nithe.”

Sam feels Dean’s forehead with the back of his hand, notes a slight fever despite the cooling water in the tub. He knows enough about medicine to know that even something as simple as chicken pox can get real serious real fast in someone Dean’s age, so he keeps a close eye on his temperature.

“Come on, you gotta get out of the bath, you’ll shrivel up.”

Dean groans in protest but lets Sam help him to his feet and over the ledge. Sam gently pats him dry and applies more paste before wrapping him in his gray cotton robe.

Sam coaxes some acetaminophen, and even a little bit of soup, into Dean before they’re both exhausted and ready for bed. Dean moans and whines with each step, and Sam has to resist the urge to videotape the pathetic behavior for future blackmail.

Dean lays in bed on his side, the part of him least covered with the rash, and Sam scoots up behind him in the bed, kisses his temple and notes the cooler temperature, and wraps his arms loosely around his brother.

“Tell me if this bothers you,” he says, “I don’t want to make the pain or the itching worse.”

Dean sighs and snuggles a little further back into him and Sam figures that between the medicine, the oatmeal and the paste, Dean might be feeling a little bit better. He lifts one of Sam’s hands to his face and kisses it, mumbles a sleepy “Thankths, Thammy,” into his palm.

Sam just holds him tighter, thinks about all the colds and flus and stomach bugs Dean nursed him through as a boy, thinks about how there wasn’t ever anyone there to do the same for him, thinks _I’d do anything for you, I’ll always take care of you when you need me to, always, I love you so much._

“Good night, Dean.”


End file.
